Maybe one day I can compile a list of crazy things substitute teachers say and do. For now, one example should do.
Upon my return from a sick day recently, I saw the words "Wall of SHAME" written in large letters on my board. Uh-oh, I thought, my students must have really been acting up yesterday. So I asked them about it. From every class, the response was the same:
Any student arriving late had to stand at the "Wall of SHAME" for two minutes. Everyone else was instructed to point at the latecomer and laugh.
"Are you serious?" I asked each of my classes.
"Yeah, he was crazy!" everyone responded.
"What if the late person refused to stand at the board?" I asked.
"He would kick them out of class."
"So, did you guys laugh?"
"Yeah." "He told us to." "We had to!"
In a way, I have to say I admire the guy. I wish I could get the students to do what I wanted. I mean, all I ever really ask is that they do their best. But maybe that's asking too much ...
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Saturday, February 16, 2008
Turn that smile upside down
Every year, there are a few students that really stand out. Might not necessarily be the best or brightest, but there's a personality, or fire, somewhere inside that make those kids memorable. One of those kids this year was someone with the nickname Smiley.
Smiley was a positive, inquisitive girl in my fifth period class. Plus, when you saw her smile, you knew where the name came from.
It's the start of the second semester, and I'm talking about Smiley in the past tense. That's because she's gone. Quit. Hasn't been to school in weeks, and doesn't intend to come back.
In late December, just before winter break, she had been absent for a couple of days, and one of her friends asked me to call her at home. "I called her, and she was crying, saying that school was pointless," the friend said. I asked the friend for the phone number--sure, we have all of our students' personal information, but often it's wrong, so I needed a number that would be answered.
I called. Smiley's mom picked up. "Oh, she's got a cold," mom said. "She'll be back tomorrow."
And she was. After class the next day, I asked her to stick around. "I talked to your mom yesterday," I said. "She said you had a cold." She nodded. "Is that all that was wrong? Or is something bothering you?"
She stood there for a bit, contemplating.
"It's just that I don't see the point in coming to school," she said. "I mean, I have two classes that matter, with teachers that care and make me think. The rest of the day I just sit there." She gave me a rundown of her schedule, talking about the incompetent, bored, unprofessional teachers she has this year, her junior year, the year that'll determine her college choices and chances.
And what could I say? There are a lot of shitty teachers in Chicago. Protected by a shitty union. Sure, our school also has many, many dedicated teachers, working hard, pushing the students, expecting much. But ... sometimes a student gets an unlucky schedule.
So, my advice went something like this: "You're right. Some of your teachers aren't the greatest. But here's the thing. You have dreams of going to college. You want to be someone. If you quit because of your schedule, you lose. Those teachers stay. Here's what you should do: In those classes where nothing's happening, where the teacher has no control over the students, or doesn't care what you do, you should sit away from the disturbances and read something. Study on your own. And then in the classes with good teachers, really work hard. Every day, look for that one moment where you really learn something. One moment can change your entire life, and you don't know when that moment will happen, so you have to come to school every day and look for it."
I ramble like that a lot. I spend hours each week encouraging students to just stick around, trying to convince them that it's all worth it in the end. I should go into sales. Every once in a while it works.
In January, Smiley was back, looking invigorated and eager. "Hey, it's great to see you," I told her.
"I decided to take your advice," she beamed. "And you're right. Every day, I can learn at least one new thing."
That was about a month ago now. She hasn't been in class in the past three weeks. No one's answering the phone.
Smiley was a positive, inquisitive girl in my fifth period class. Plus, when you saw her smile, you knew where the name came from.
It's the start of the second semester, and I'm talking about Smiley in the past tense. That's because she's gone. Quit. Hasn't been to school in weeks, and doesn't intend to come back.
In late December, just before winter break, she had been absent for a couple of days, and one of her friends asked me to call her at home. "I called her, and she was crying, saying that school was pointless," the friend said. I asked the friend for the phone number--sure, we have all of our students' personal information, but often it's wrong, so I needed a number that would be answered.
I called. Smiley's mom picked up. "Oh, she's got a cold," mom said. "She'll be back tomorrow."
And she was. After class the next day, I asked her to stick around. "I talked to your mom yesterday," I said. "She said you had a cold." She nodded. "Is that all that was wrong? Or is something bothering you?"
She stood there for a bit, contemplating.
"It's just that I don't see the point in coming to school," she said. "I mean, I have two classes that matter, with teachers that care and make me think. The rest of the day I just sit there." She gave me a rundown of her schedule, talking about the incompetent, bored, unprofessional teachers she has this year, her junior year, the year that'll determine her college choices and chances.
And what could I say? There are a lot of shitty teachers in Chicago. Protected by a shitty union. Sure, our school also has many, many dedicated teachers, working hard, pushing the students, expecting much. But ... sometimes a student gets an unlucky schedule.
So, my advice went something like this: "You're right. Some of your teachers aren't the greatest. But here's the thing. You have dreams of going to college. You want to be someone. If you quit because of your schedule, you lose. Those teachers stay. Here's what you should do: In those classes where nothing's happening, where the teacher has no control over the students, or doesn't care what you do, you should sit away from the disturbances and read something. Study on your own. And then in the classes with good teachers, really work hard. Every day, look for that one moment where you really learn something. One moment can change your entire life, and you don't know when that moment will happen, so you have to come to school every day and look for it."
I ramble like that a lot. I spend hours each week encouraging students to just stick around, trying to convince them that it's all worth it in the end. I should go into sales. Every once in a while it works.
In January, Smiley was back, looking invigorated and eager. "Hey, it's great to see you," I told her.
"I decided to take your advice," she beamed. "And you're right. Every day, I can learn at least one new thing."
That was about a month ago now. She hasn't been in class in the past three weeks. No one's answering the phone.
Friday, February 15, 2008
Northern Illinois University
It was the place where I studied to be the teacher I am today. Actually, that's sort of a lie: I did major in English with an emphasis in education, but I never was much of a student, spending way too much time at the student-run newspaper and student radio station. Whatever. They were a pretty good four years at a wannabe university. Today, it finally made national headlines as the latest location of a school shooting.
Several of my former students are there right now, some because of my recommendation. Hopefully they're OK ...
Several of my former students are there right now, some because of my recommendation. Hopefully they're OK ...
Thursday, February 14, 2008
This must be what jail is really like
"Long time no see."
A familiar head popped in the door the other day. A really cool kid I hadn't seen in months. "Hey," I said. "What have you been up to?"
"Well," he said, "I was locked up. But I'm back. And I'm trying to get back in school here."
"Hey, that's great. Is everything, um, OK?"
"Yeah. I mean, I'm on parole now. But all that stuff's behind me now."
"Good. It's good to see you. Hopefully everything will work out. But I hope you hurry it up. The semester's already two weeks old, so you're already behind."
And so we chit-chatted for a bit. About things we're doing in class. About who's still here, who's gone. Of course there was a big question I wanted to ask but didn't. What had he been arrested for? I didn't ask, and he didn't offer up the information. Instead, he produced a report card.
"I got an A in British Literature," he said, pretty proud.
I looked at the grades: A in English and three B's. "Not bad," I said. "So, you took classes in jail?"
"Yeah. And the teachers there were really good. Good enough to be, you know, real teachers. They could work at a regular high school. It wasn't just worksheets and that kind of stuff. We read from textbooks and did, you know, work."
"That's really great. Tell me more about it. Like, how many guys were in your classes?"
"Classes weren't too big, maybe 12 or 13 people."
"And the teachers were good?"
"Yeah."
"And were there guards?"
"Oh yeah."
"In the room with you? In the back, just ready to kick some ass?"
"Well, not in the room. But the teachers had a button on their desk. And if there was trouble, they'd press that and the guards would come on in."
"Did that ever happen?"
"No ... you know, school was a chance to get out of your cell. Get out of the daily routine. Nobody wanted to mess that up."
"And so everyone was there to learn?"
"Yeah. Nobody messed around."
"Huh," I said, thinking, how the hell could I show my everyday students that school is, you know, an opportunity? A chance to get out of the cell of life that so many of them are stuck in, a chance to get out of the routine.
"Anyway, I'm gonna get going," he said. "I hope to be back in your class soon."
"Thanks. I hope you get back, too."
And if I get him back, I hope to write about it. And about whatever else happens.
A familiar head popped in the door the other day. A really cool kid I hadn't seen in months. "Hey," I said. "What have you been up to?"
"Well," he said, "I was locked up. But I'm back. And I'm trying to get back in school here."
"Hey, that's great. Is everything, um, OK?"
"Yeah. I mean, I'm on parole now. But all that stuff's behind me now."
"Good. It's good to see you. Hopefully everything will work out. But I hope you hurry it up. The semester's already two weeks old, so you're already behind."
And so we chit-chatted for a bit. About things we're doing in class. About who's still here, who's gone. Of course there was a big question I wanted to ask but didn't. What had he been arrested for? I didn't ask, and he didn't offer up the information. Instead, he produced a report card.
"I got an A in British Literature," he said, pretty proud.
I looked at the grades: A in English and three B's. "Not bad," I said. "So, you took classes in jail?"
"Yeah. And the teachers there were really good. Good enough to be, you know, real teachers. They could work at a regular high school. It wasn't just worksheets and that kind of stuff. We read from textbooks and did, you know, work."
"That's really great. Tell me more about it. Like, how many guys were in your classes?"
"Classes weren't too big, maybe 12 or 13 people."
"And the teachers were good?"
"Yeah."
"And were there guards?"
"Oh yeah."
"In the room with you? In the back, just ready to kick some ass?"
"Well, not in the room. But the teachers had a button on their desk. And if there was trouble, they'd press that and the guards would come on in."
"Did that ever happen?"
"No ... you know, school was a chance to get out of your cell. Get out of the daily routine. Nobody wanted to mess that up."
"And so everyone was there to learn?"
"Yeah. Nobody messed around."
"Huh," I said, thinking, how the hell could I show my everyday students that school is, you know, an opportunity? A chance to get out of the cell of life that so many of them are stuck in, a chance to get out of the routine.
"Anyway, I'm gonna get going," he said. "I hope to be back in your class soon."
"Thanks. I hope you get back, too."
And if I get him back, I hope to write about it. And about whatever else happens.
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Beer
"Hey man, you owe me a beer!"
After school, I'm in the school parking lot and I hear this form of hello from an ex-student. "Hey," I respond. "How's it going? What are you doing here?"
"I was in the neighborhood, so I thought I'd stop by and see my sister," he responds. "But do you remember? You still owe me a beer."
"I remember, I remember. Just tell me when you want to go grab one," I tell him. "In fact, I swear, I was just thinking about you today, so it's weird that you're here."
And I tell him that earlier in the school day, a student asked a question very similar to one he asked several years back: "Mr. P., when I turn 21, can I party with you?"
My response today, just like I told this guy several years ago, was something like this: "Trust me, when you turn 21, the last thing you'll want to do is party with me. I mean, I'm not much of a partier. Plus, you'll have much better things to do than drink with a high school teacher."
"Well, I still want to grab a beer with you," the kid in the parking lot says. But he's not a kid anymore. He's 23. Married, to his high school sweetheart. With a two-year-old daughter. With a house in the suburbs.
I look at him, thinking, man oh man, I taught this guy six or seven years ago. It's kind of cool that he still remembers me. And that I remember him, even though there are plenty of students I taught last year that I've already forgotten. "You're getting old," I say.
He laughs. His sister, who is a junior, comes over, laughs, and tells her older brother, "And you're getting a nice, big belly."
"Yeah," I say, "so maybe that beer isn't such a good idea."
If teaching were like running for president, maybe a reporter would ask the students: Which of your teachers would you most want to have a beer with? I'd probably win that popularity contest (although maybe the auto shop teacher would beat me out), but then, after having that beer and judging me objectively, the voters would eventually realize there's more to life than having a beer with a loser of a candidate.
After school, I'm in the school parking lot and I hear this form of hello from an ex-student. "Hey," I respond. "How's it going? What are you doing here?"
"I was in the neighborhood, so I thought I'd stop by and see my sister," he responds. "But do you remember? You still owe me a beer."
"I remember, I remember. Just tell me when you want to go grab one," I tell him. "In fact, I swear, I was just thinking about you today, so it's weird that you're here."
And I tell him that earlier in the school day, a student asked a question very similar to one he asked several years back: "Mr. P., when I turn 21, can I party with you?"
My response today, just like I told this guy several years ago, was something like this: "Trust me, when you turn 21, the last thing you'll want to do is party with me. I mean, I'm not much of a partier. Plus, you'll have much better things to do than drink with a high school teacher."
"Well, I still want to grab a beer with you," the kid in the parking lot says. But he's not a kid anymore. He's 23. Married, to his high school sweetheart. With a two-year-old daughter. With a house in the suburbs.
I look at him, thinking, man oh man, I taught this guy six or seven years ago. It's kind of cool that he still remembers me. And that I remember him, even though there are plenty of students I taught last year that I've already forgotten. "You're getting old," I say.
He laughs. His sister, who is a junior, comes over, laughs, and tells her older brother, "And you're getting a nice, big belly."
"Yeah," I say, "so maybe that beer isn't such a good idea."
If teaching were like running for president, maybe a reporter would ask the students: Which of your teachers would you most want to have a beer with? I'd probably win that popularity contest (although maybe the auto shop teacher would beat me out), but then, after having that beer and judging me objectively, the voters would eventually realize there's more to life than having a beer with a loser of a candidate.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Things that make me smile, #49
It's between semesters. Finals are graded. Papers turned in. Can't really start anything new until Monday, when semester 2 begins. So today I put kids into groups and had them play little word puzzles and games. One problem they had to figure out was this:
Most students worked hard on the puzzles, and there was excitement in the room as groups got answers right or wrong. But from one group, I heard this exchange:
"Man, where the hell does he get these questions?"
"I don't know. Must stay up late doing these."
"That man has too much time on his hands."
Explain which letter would logically come next in this sequence:
A E F H I K L M N ___
A E F H I K L M N ___
Most students worked hard on the puzzles, and there was excitement in the room as groups got answers right or wrong. But from one group, I heard this exchange:
"Man, where the hell does he get these questions?"
"I don't know. Must stay up late doing these."
"That man has too much time on his hands."
The answer to the question is in the comments.
Things that make me smile, #351
On an essay test, an AP student wrote about this novel he supposedly read last year: Tequila Mockingbird.
Laughing about this at the English Department meeting, another teacher said, "One of my students swears that the best novel he has ever read is How to Kill a Mockingbird."
Laughing about this at the English Department meeting, another teacher said, "One of my students swears that the best novel he has ever read is How to Kill a Mockingbird."
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Finals week
Well, it's the end of the semester. Man oh man, time flies. I cannot believe the school year is halfway over. (Something I like to say to my colleagues this time of year: "Gosh! One of these days I gotta start teaching.") I also can't believe that the days are getting longer. I left the school at 5 p.m. today, and it was still light out. The sun was down, it was about 15 degrees, but at least it wasn't dark!
Anyway, I've got a couple of stories from these past few days to share, but I have a bag of papers to grade and enter before tomorrow. Grades are due at 3 p.m.! Not a good thing for slackers like me.
But I'll leave you with my theory on why time seems to go by faster the older you get (not sure if it's a theory or even if it's really mine, but whatever):
Time goes by faster the older you get because of fractions. When you're one, the year it takes to get to your second birthday is one-half of your entire life. That's a long time. Even in your teens, a year is one-fifteenth or one-sixteenth of your life. But now that you're well into your 30s, a year is a much smaller fraction of your life. And so a year doesn't last as long as it used to. I mean, this week is practically halfway over. This month is coming to a screeching (and freezing) end.
Leading one to this question: How can you slow it all down? One way, I suppose, is to do new things. By doing something memorable every day (or, sheesh, once a week), you slow life down, basking in all the newness of your existence. Or at least you can reflect on it all and say, Wow, I've done a lot. Another way to slow down time, I guess (although I don't know), is to reproduce. Yes, by watching your children go from zero to one, you get to see a human's entire lifetime (so far) pass by the way it should: slowly, interestingly, with wonder, with joy. Plus, waking up every few hours to feed the baby will make your nights feel like mini-lifetimes.
See you later! I gotta go experience something new now. (Yup, first time grading papers this year.)
Anyway, I've got a couple of stories from these past few days to share, but I have a bag of papers to grade and enter before tomorrow. Grades are due at 3 p.m.! Not a good thing for slackers like me.
But I'll leave you with my theory on why time seems to go by faster the older you get (not sure if it's a theory or even if it's really mine, but whatever):
Time goes by faster the older you get because of fractions. When you're one, the year it takes to get to your second birthday is one-half of your entire life. That's a long time. Even in your teens, a year is one-fifteenth or one-sixteenth of your life. But now that you're well into your 30s, a year is a much smaller fraction of your life. And so a year doesn't last as long as it used to. I mean, this week is practically halfway over. This month is coming to a screeching (and freezing) end.
Leading one to this question: How can you slow it all down? One way, I suppose, is to do new things. By doing something memorable every day (or, sheesh, once a week), you slow life down, basking in all the newness of your existence. Or at least you can reflect on it all and say, Wow, I've done a lot. Another way to slow down time, I guess (although I don't know), is to reproduce. Yes, by watching your children go from zero to one, you get to see a human's entire lifetime (so far) pass by the way it should: slowly, interestingly, with wonder, with joy. Plus, waking up every few hours to feed the baby will make your nights feel like mini-lifetimes.
See you later! I gotta go experience something new now. (Yup, first time grading papers this year.)
Saturday, January 19, 2008
Weather report
New slang term #2
This one's not even slang, but I always find it funny when I don't know what the kids are talking about, and then when I do find out, how salty I feel for not knowing.
After school yesterday, a few kids stuck around to present their oral exams.
Two hours after all their friends had left, this group finished and was heading out. "Thanks for staying and doing this," I said, "instead of leaving when everyone else did."
"That's OK," one girl said. "All our friends are just getting fat at OCB."
"OCB?" I asked.
"Yeah, a big group of them went there after school today," she said.
"But what's OCB?"
"Old Country Buffet."
After school yesterday, a few kids stuck around to present their oral exams.
Two hours after all their friends had left, this group finished and was heading out. "Thanks for staying and doing this," I said, "instead of leaving when everyone else did."
"That's OK," one girl said. "All our friends are just getting fat at OCB."
"OCB?" I asked.
"Yeah, a big group of them went there after school today," she said.
"But what's OCB?"
"Old Country Buffet."
Friday, January 18, 2008
Don't You Forget About Me
It's after school, and a couple of boys and I are playing a fun game that I'll call "Guess Who He Likes." Also in the room are some African kids practicing their dance for the international festival and a group of girls making 3D glasses. Don't ask about the 3D glasses--it wasn't for my class, but I was around, so they decided to work in my room.
The guys and I are playing "Guess Who He Likes" because one of them was laughing at the other for being "a vulture." Apparently, right after school, this kid wanted to talk to a girl at her locker, but he hesitated, and ended up walking past her a couple of times, sort of circling, before leaving without saying anything. So they came into my room and the one guy was laughing at the other one.
"You were such a vulture," says the one. The other looks sheepish. I ask about it. "Oh, he likes this girl but is afraid to talk to her," I'm told.
"Who is she?" I ask.
"Don't worry about it," says the vulture. "You don't know her."
"Sure he does, she's in his fifth period class," his friend says.
And so I pull up the class roster on my computer, complete with pictures, and ask, "Who is it?"
"I'm not telling you," the vulture says. "But you can try to guess. I'll give you two tries."
I look over the roster. I have no clue. Especially because it's my one class with 24 girls, so my odds of guessing are pretty low. "Give me a hint," I say.
"Based on what you know about me, who do you think?" he asks.
I have no idea. I tell him that and turn to the friend. "Describe her."
"Well, I think she's good looking, too," he says. "Which girls do you think are attractive?"
"Hey, I don't think about my students that way," I say.
And so the three of us are at my computer, the dancers are dancing, the girls are cutting out 3D glasses, and a fellow English teacher walks in and just stares at everything going on. "Hey," I say to her. "Come over here. We're playing 'Guess Who He Likes.' Which of these girls do you think this guy would like?"
She comes over. Looks at the computer. Looks at me. "You know, I came in here for a reason," she says, "but for the life of me, I can't remember what it was."
"When you figure it out," I tell her, "you know where to find me."
Later on, it's quiet. The vulture is the only one left. We're still talking about the girl he likes. I thought I had it figured out, but it turns out I was wrong. The one he does like is probably completely wrong for him, but I don't tell him that. Instead, I turn on some music. "Don't You Forget About Me" by the Simple Minds comes on.
"Turns out this song is very meaningful to me," I tell him. And I tell him this story: Back when I was his age, a junior in high school, I had a crush on a classmate. At the end of that school year, she wrote a really nice message in my yearbook. It was long and heartfelt, with definite feelings that I didn't quite understand at the time. Included was a comment about this very song: Basically, she said that songs like "Don't You Forget About Me" are worth remembering, not Pink Floyd's. The following year, I didn't have any classes with the girl and we lost touch.
"The weird thing," I tell the vulture, "is that she wrote that 20 years ago. And I still remember it. And every time I hear this song, I think about her message in my yearbook."
"That's really cool," he says.
"Anyway, don't listen to anyone that tells you not to follow your heart. If you feel a connection, go for it. You never know," I say. "In other words, don't chicken out like I did."
Which, in more ways than he can ever guess, is the story of my life.
The guys and I are playing "Guess Who He Likes" because one of them was laughing at the other for being "a vulture." Apparently, right after school, this kid wanted to talk to a girl at her locker, but he hesitated, and ended up walking past her a couple of times, sort of circling, before leaving without saying anything. So they came into my room and the one guy was laughing at the other one.
"You were such a vulture," says the one. The other looks sheepish. I ask about it. "Oh, he likes this girl but is afraid to talk to her," I'm told.
"Who is she?" I ask.
"Don't worry about it," says the vulture. "You don't know her."
"Sure he does, she's in his fifth period class," his friend says.
And so I pull up the class roster on my computer, complete with pictures, and ask, "Who is it?"
"I'm not telling you," the vulture says. "But you can try to guess. I'll give you two tries."
I look over the roster. I have no clue. Especially because it's my one class with 24 girls, so my odds of guessing are pretty low. "Give me a hint," I say.
"Based on what you know about me, who do you think?" he asks.
I have no idea. I tell him that and turn to the friend. "Describe her."
"Well, I think she's good looking, too," he says. "Which girls do you think are attractive?"
"Hey, I don't think about my students that way," I say.
And so the three of us are at my computer, the dancers are dancing, the girls are cutting out 3D glasses, and a fellow English teacher walks in and just stares at everything going on. "Hey," I say to her. "Come over here. We're playing 'Guess Who He Likes.' Which of these girls do you think this guy would like?"
She comes over. Looks at the computer. Looks at me. "You know, I came in here for a reason," she says, "but for the life of me, I can't remember what it was."
"When you figure it out," I tell her, "you know where to find me."
Later on, it's quiet. The vulture is the only one left. We're still talking about the girl he likes. I thought I had it figured out, but it turns out I was wrong. The one he does like is probably completely wrong for him, but I don't tell him that. Instead, I turn on some music. "Don't You Forget About Me" by the Simple Minds comes on.
"Turns out this song is very meaningful to me," I tell him. And I tell him this story: Back when I was his age, a junior in high school, I had a crush on a classmate. At the end of that school year, she wrote a really nice message in my yearbook. It was long and heartfelt, with definite feelings that I didn't quite understand at the time. Included was a comment about this very song: Basically, she said that songs like "Don't You Forget About Me" are worth remembering, not Pink Floyd's. The following year, I didn't have any classes with the girl and we lost touch.
"The weird thing," I tell the vulture, "is that she wrote that 20 years ago. And I still remember it. And every time I hear this song, I think about her message in my yearbook."
"That's really cool," he says.
"Anyway, don't listen to anyone that tells you not to follow your heart. If you feel a connection, go for it. You never know," I say. "In other words, don't chicken out like I did."
Which, in more ways than he can ever guess, is the story of my life.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Catching up
This is how behind the times I am: A few days ago, Jim Derogatis wrote a scathing "review" of the movie Juno in the Sun-Times. I meant to disagree with him, but so many people have already done it on the newspaper's website that he's closed the comments. Can't take the heat, I guess.
Personally, I liked the movie and the soundtrack. But whatever, I'm a 36-year-old guy. And I'll never say what all teenagers are like or would like. Derogatis, however, seems to be an expert on all things teen, writing:
Personally, I liked the movie and the soundtrack. But whatever, I'm a 36-year-old guy. And I'll never say what all teenagers are like or would like. Derogatis, however, seems to be an expert on all things teen, writing:
As an unapologetically old-school feminist, the father of a soon-to-be-teenage daughter, a reporter who regularly talks to actual teens as part of his beat and a plain old moviegoer, I hated, hated, hated this movie. A few of my many problems:Um, Jim, in case it matters: I talk to (or at least talk at) 130 teenagers every day. And here's what I know:
* The notion that kids -- even smart and sarcastic ones -- talk like Juno is a lie only thirty-something filmmakers and fifty-something movie critics could buy. You want accurate wisecracking high-school dialog? Go back to MTV’s animated “Daria” or Sara Gilbert’s Darlene on “Roseanne.”
- Some teenagers are clever enough to talk like Juno. Most aren't. A few are even more sarcastic and witty.
- I've never run into anyone that talks exactly like the character in the movie (who, just like every character in every movie, has been created by someone else). Then again, I've rarely run into teenagers that talk like the ones on MTV do, either.
- Lots of the teens I deal with would probably hate the movie, too. Then again, just two days ago, one kid, an 18-year-old senior originally from Minnesota, was absolutely raving about the movie and how much it made him want to write music.
- In my eight years of teaching at CPS, I've never heard of one of my students giving up her baby for adoption. In that time, I've heard of plenty of abortions and births. And I've seen how difficult being a teenage mom is for these girls. So, if Juno promotes adoption, well, I think it's a message kids should see.
New slang term #1
"Hey, Mr. P., check it out. I'm ballin'," a girl says as she walks into class. She lifts her sweatshirt to reveal three cell phones attached to her belt. She laughs.
"Wait, what does that mean?" I ask.
"Oh, these are just other people's. They asked me to hang onto them."
"Yeah, but what did you say? Ballin'?"
"Yeah. Ballin'. You know, rollin'. I've got it goin' on."
"Oh." Got that?
"Wait, what does that mean?" I ask.
"Oh, these are just other people's. They asked me to hang onto them."
"Yeah, but what did you say? Ballin'?"
"Yeah. Ballin'. You know, rollin'. I've got it goin' on."
"Oh." Got that?
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Fitting in
And so I now find myself acting as the de facto sponsor of--are your ready for this?--the school's African Club. How, you might ask yourself, does this happen to the whitest teacher in the building? That's the same question I'm asking myself. Here's how, maybe:
Yesterday after school, a familiar face showed up in my room. It was 4:30, I was helping a couple of students put the finishing touches on their presentations. "Bonjour," the visitor said. "Are you going to be here a while?"
"Not really," I said. "Why?"
"Do you mind if we practice in here? Only ten minutes. Please?"
This was a kid I met on a spring break trip to Paris two years ago. Great kid. Every time he sees me in the hall, he says something in French, as if I learned anything on that trip.
"Fine," I said. "But not for long. I need to get out of here soon, OK?"
"Merci beaucoup!"
And with that, eight African kids rolled in, plugged in a boom box, and started pushing student desks into corners. I always think my classroom must look and sound pretty incredible after school. Either kids are hanging out or presenting some assignment or I'm cranking loud punk rock or ... or I'm at my desk pretending to work with a group of kids dancing, really moving, to some amazing rhythms in the middle of the room.
Every spring our school hosts an international festival. Students from all over the world attend the school, and they show off their cultural pride by dressing up and dancing to some traditional music. Well, each group needs a sponsor. And a place to practice. For some reason, this is my second year helping out the African students. They're from various countries--Ghana, Kenya, Eritrea, and probably other places I never heard of until I started working where I work. I hoped that my room-as-rehearsal-space would be a temporary thing this year.
The ten minutes yesterday quickly turned into thirty, and I finally kicked them out at 5:15. They returned today. And when I finally forced them to leave, one of the girls said with a bright smile, "See you tomorrow!" And two or three voices chimed in, "Thank you!" How can I refuse?
"I just better be in the yearbook with you guys," I yelled to them. "And everyone can play a game: What's wrong with this picture? Who doesn't fit in?"
Yesterday after school, a familiar face showed up in my room. It was 4:30, I was helping a couple of students put the finishing touches on their presentations. "Bonjour," the visitor said. "Are you going to be here a while?"
"Not really," I said. "Why?"
"Do you mind if we practice in here? Only ten minutes. Please?"
This was a kid I met on a spring break trip to Paris two years ago. Great kid. Every time he sees me in the hall, he says something in French, as if I learned anything on that trip.
"Fine," I said. "But not for long. I need to get out of here soon, OK?"
"Merci beaucoup!"
And with that, eight African kids rolled in, plugged in a boom box, and started pushing student desks into corners. I always think my classroom must look and sound pretty incredible after school. Either kids are hanging out or presenting some assignment or I'm cranking loud punk rock or ... or I'm at my desk pretending to work with a group of kids dancing, really moving, to some amazing rhythms in the middle of the room.
Every spring our school hosts an international festival. Students from all over the world attend the school, and they show off their cultural pride by dressing up and dancing to some traditional music. Well, each group needs a sponsor. And a place to practice. For some reason, this is my second year helping out the African students. They're from various countries--Ghana, Kenya, Eritrea, and probably other places I never heard of until I started working where I work. I hoped that my room-as-rehearsal-space would be a temporary thing this year.
The ten minutes yesterday quickly turned into thirty, and I finally kicked them out at 5:15. They returned today. And when I finally forced them to leave, one of the girls said with a bright smile, "See you tomorrow!" And two or three voices chimed in, "Thank you!" How can I refuse?
"I just better be in the yearbook with you guys," I yelled to them. "And everyone can play a game: What's wrong with this picture? Who doesn't fit in?"
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Noise annoys
At the start of class, students are working on a bellringer assignment, just a little something to get them going. The room is humming with the white noise signaling the start of class--a couple of quiet conversations are finishing up, papers are rustling, desks are shifting. Nothing major, nothing too distracting, nothing to yell about.
Still, two girls almost simultaneously ask a boy to please shut up. "What?" he asks, "Why do you have to gang up on me like that?" Basicially, he had been minding his own business, making some clicking noise with his tongue, probably unconsciously.
"That's annoying," one of the girls says.
"Yeah," the other says. "Annoying!"
I walk over. "I'll tell you what's annoying," I say, ready to tell them about all the other noise going on, about the rudeness of telling someone to shut up, about students not working.
"What annoys you?" the tongue-clicker asks me. "Black people?"
"Oh never mind," I say and walk away.
Minor annoyances occur every day. How you handle them says a lots about your teaching. Some teachers get worked up over the tiniest little thing, the quietest little "fuck you" or other sign of disrespect. These days, I make it a point to ignore the ignorant. But it reminds me of when I was in high school. I remember thinking it hilarious when a friend and I started making pigeon noises in the back of the room. It was junior year English (the very same level I now teach) with a boring teacher that didn't really seem to know what she was doing. We figured we were probably driving her absolutely crazy. We also thought we were doing a pretty solid bird call.
When I think about it now, I realize the teacher probably heard us, probably knew exactly who was doing it. And she probably simply chose to ignore us.
Still, two girls almost simultaneously ask a boy to please shut up. "What?" he asks, "Why do you have to gang up on me like that?" Basicially, he had been minding his own business, making some clicking noise with his tongue, probably unconsciously.
"That's annoying," one of the girls says.
"Yeah," the other says. "Annoying!"
I walk over. "I'll tell you what's annoying," I say, ready to tell them about all the other noise going on, about the rudeness of telling someone to shut up, about students not working.
"What annoys you?" the tongue-clicker asks me. "Black people?"
"Oh never mind," I say and walk away.
Minor annoyances occur every day. How you handle them says a lots about your teaching. Some teachers get worked up over the tiniest little thing, the quietest little "fuck you" or other sign of disrespect. These days, I make it a point to ignore the ignorant. But it reminds me of when I was in high school. I remember thinking it hilarious when a friend and I started making pigeon noises in the back of the room. It was junior year English (the very same level I now teach) with a boring teacher that didn't really seem to know what she was doing. We figured we were probably driving her absolutely crazy. We also thought we were doing a pretty solid bird call.
When I think about it now, I realize the teacher probably heard us, probably knew exactly who was doing it. And she probably simply chose to ignore us.
Monday, January 14, 2008
Here's what I mean about honesty
I keep an online gradebook so that students can log in and see how they're doing, what they're missing, what they can do to improve their grades. Just today I noticed this email from one of my kids:
Sorry to be bothering you again but you made a big grading error on the online grammar week 14. You put 31 points instead of 13. I just thought you should know.I probably would never have noticed that error, so if she hadn't said anything, she could've kept the few extra points (which are really negligible as far as her overall grade). I feel like I should reward her honesty, but I'm not sure how.
Have a great weekend!
Sunday, January 13, 2008
Four eyes
Two true things about students: They hate change. And they are brutally honest. That said, when I showed up wearing a new pair of glasses, what did I hear from them?
A. "You look like such a nerd!"
B. "Hello, grandpa."
C. "Scary!"
D. All of the above.
A. "You look like such a nerd!"
B. "Hello, grandpa."
C. "Scary!"
D. All of the above.
Saturday, January 12, 2008
Chapter 26
Many students tell me they aren't readers. They say they've never read an entire book and have no plans to start. I tell them that they aren't readers yet. I insist that they will read at least one novel before the end of the year. And then we spend the entire school year proving each other wrong.
It's incredible when the light bulb does turn on in students' heads--sometimes it happens to an entire class--and they start really responding to some work of literature. This happened last year. (Step into my memory ...) My eighth period English IV class, full of slackers and auto shop boys and recent immigrants, takes one look at The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini and declare that they'll never read it.
"Trust me," I remember saying, "you'll love it."
"That's what you said about Like Water for Chocolate!" someone says.
"What? You didn't like that one? Well, this one's different."
I then say two things to try to get the kids interested:
During the next couple of weeks, I find myself interrupted by my eighth period kids at weird moments during the school day. Between third and fourth, for example, a head pops in and shouts, "Ooh, I hate that motherfucker!" It takes me a moment to realize she's talking about one of the characters. Before school, a student stops by to ask if this is a true story.
If there is a teacher heaven, this is it. Students engaged. Into it. But if teacher heaven exists, so must teacher hell. On the day the entire novel must be complete, the kids come into class, with very little enthusiasm. Damn, I think, none of them finished. How's that possible? They were loving it. They were devouring it. Maybe they just didn't want it to end ...
"That was the worst ending of a novel ever," one kid declares.
"Yeah," someone else says, "there's no ending. We don't know what happened!"
"Is there another chapter? Part two to the book?" a third voice wants to know.
"Hang on," I say. "You read? You all actually finished? And you didn't like the ending? I thought it was an amazing ending." I'm in heaven again. They read. They were engaged with the story and the characters. And now they have actual criticism. Yes, I'm in heaven, but they're in hell, so I have to come up with something fast. Forget the lesson plan.
"OK, fine, let's say it's a rotten ending," I say. "Let's make it better. Your assignment is to write the next chapter. How do you think it should end? Any questions? No? OK, it's due tomorrow. Go!"
And so they start writing. Silence in the classroom, 25 18-year-old, self-proclaimed nonreaders creating something for others to read. One question does come up a couple of times, and I know I have a hit on my hands: "How long can it be?" NOT how long does it have to be? I tell them to keep writing until the book is finished.
The next day they show up with their work, some with several pages. They're excited. They want to share, to read their chapter out loud. So I let them. Some go all over the place, with characters showing up at our school and turning to gangs and drugs, but everyone listens, laughs at the right moments, and applauds at the endings.
(INTERRUPTION--As I'm writing this, I realize what many of you are thinking: there's no way this happened exactly as I'm describing it. And you're right. Sure, there were kids that didn't read the book. There were those that didn't do the assignment. Or did it poorly. Or slept while others read. But lay off, OK? This is my memory, and this is what I choose to remember.)
There was one student that really stood out: A recent immigrant from Nepal, a very small and fragile-looking boy, who was quite smart but too shy and too intimidated by the others to talk much in class. After class he sometimes stuck around and we had some amazing discussions, me knowing very little about his country and him being very homesick. Somehow the class got him to read his final chapter out loud. It was long. His accent made him difficult to understand at times. But when he finished, the class literally gave him a standing ovation.
"Now," someone declared, "the book is complete."
If you've read the novel, you know how it ends. If you haven't, you should for two reasons: 1. Something horrible happens to a boy, and 2. You can try to guess which part made me cry. Oh, and here's a possible third reason to read the book: I'm including the final chapter, as written by my student, in the comments below. It's not perfect, but it's good. Read his work, and tell me what you think.
It's incredible when the light bulb does turn on in students' heads--sometimes it happens to an entire class--and they start really responding to some work of literature. This happened last year. (Step into my memory ...) My eighth period English IV class, full of slackers and auto shop boys and recent immigrants, takes one look at The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini and declare that they'll never read it.
"Trust me," I remember saying, "you'll love it."
"That's what you said about Like Water for Chocolate!" someone says.
"What? You didn't like that one? Well, this one's different."
I then say two things to try to get the kids interested:
- Something really horrible happens to one of the boys in the book. It's one of the most horrible things that can ever happen.
- Parts of this book, well, made me cry. Here's what I tell them: "I was reading this book on vacation. I remember being on a plane, heading back from Ireland, when I got to a certain passage. It's not even a major event in the book, but it really touched me. And then I felt something trickling down my face, towards my chin. It was a tear! I realized I was crying. So I lifted the book"--I hold an open book in front of my face to show what I did on that plane--"so that no one could see me. After a minute I slowly lowered the book and peered over to see if anyone had noticed me crying. Luckily, everyone else on the plane was asleep. So I was free to cry. Ladies and gents, that's the kind of book this is."
During the next couple of weeks, I find myself interrupted by my eighth period kids at weird moments during the school day. Between third and fourth, for example, a head pops in and shouts, "Ooh, I hate that motherfucker!" It takes me a moment to realize she's talking about one of the characters. Before school, a student stops by to ask if this is a true story.
If there is a teacher heaven, this is it. Students engaged. Into it. But if teacher heaven exists, so must teacher hell. On the day the entire novel must be complete, the kids come into class, with very little enthusiasm. Damn, I think, none of them finished. How's that possible? They were loving it. They were devouring it. Maybe they just didn't want it to end ...
"That was the worst ending of a novel ever," one kid declares.
"Yeah," someone else says, "there's no ending. We don't know what happened!"
"Is there another chapter? Part two to the book?" a third voice wants to know.
"Hang on," I say. "You read? You all actually finished? And you didn't like the ending? I thought it was an amazing ending." I'm in heaven again. They read. They were engaged with the story and the characters. And now they have actual criticism. Yes, I'm in heaven, but they're in hell, so I have to come up with something fast. Forget the lesson plan.
"OK, fine, let's say it's a rotten ending," I say. "Let's make it better. Your assignment is to write the next chapter. How do you think it should end? Any questions? No? OK, it's due tomorrow. Go!"
And so they start writing. Silence in the classroom, 25 18-year-old, self-proclaimed nonreaders creating something for others to read. One question does come up a couple of times, and I know I have a hit on my hands: "How long can it be?" NOT how long does it have to be? I tell them to keep writing until the book is finished.
The next day they show up with their work, some with several pages. They're excited. They want to share, to read their chapter out loud. So I let them. Some go all over the place, with characters showing up at our school and turning to gangs and drugs, but everyone listens, laughs at the right moments, and applauds at the endings.
(INTERRUPTION--As I'm writing this, I realize what many of you are thinking: there's no way this happened exactly as I'm describing it. And you're right. Sure, there were kids that didn't read the book. There were those that didn't do the assignment. Or did it poorly. Or slept while others read. But lay off, OK? This is my memory, and this is what I choose to remember.)
There was one student that really stood out: A recent immigrant from Nepal, a very small and fragile-looking boy, who was quite smart but too shy and too intimidated by the others to talk much in class. After class he sometimes stuck around and we had some amazing discussions, me knowing very little about his country and him being very homesick. Somehow the class got him to read his final chapter out loud. It was long. His accent made him difficult to understand at times. But when he finished, the class literally gave him a standing ovation.
"Now," someone declared, "the book is complete."
If you've read the novel, you know how it ends. If you haven't, you should for two reasons: 1. Something horrible happens to a boy, and 2. You can try to guess which part made me cry. Oh, and here's a possible third reason to read the book: I'm including the final chapter, as written by my student, in the comments below. It's not perfect, but it's good. Read his work, and tell me what you think.
Friday, January 11, 2008
Success
Isaac brought a sword to school on Tuesday. On Thursday, he stopped by in the morning looking serious. Serious, I might add, for the first time this school year.
"What if I decided I just wanted to end it all?" he announced.
"End what?" I asked.
"Everything," he said. "Suicide. What's the point of living?"
I looked at him. Gone was the usual twinkle in his eye. No mischievous smile. I decided not to take him seriously anyway. "Oh, come on, Isaac," I said. "Life is long and full of unexpected twists and turns. Enjoy the ride."
"Yeah," he said, "but what if all those twists and turns lead to nothing but dead ends?"
"You can't be serious. Wait, are you serious? Do I need to talk to your counselor about this?"
"Why?"
"Liability. If you do anything to yourself, I'll get in trouble."
"You could just pretend we never had this conversation," he said.
"I can, but I'd rather have you alive. I mean, you have so much to live for!"
"Like what?"
"Well, look at me for example," I said. "One day you can be as successful and cool as me."
He cracked up, quickly transforming back to his jolly self.
"Damn you! You got me," he said as he continued to laugh. "Successful. You!"
"What if I decided I just wanted to end it all?" he announced.
"End what?" I asked.
"Everything," he said. "Suicide. What's the point of living?"
I looked at him. Gone was the usual twinkle in his eye. No mischievous smile. I decided not to take him seriously anyway. "Oh, come on, Isaac," I said. "Life is long and full of unexpected twists and turns. Enjoy the ride."
"Yeah," he said, "but what if all those twists and turns lead to nothing but dead ends?"
"You can't be serious. Wait, are you serious? Do I need to talk to your counselor about this?"
"Why?"
"Liability. If you do anything to yourself, I'll get in trouble."
"You could just pretend we never had this conversation," he said.
"I can, but I'd rather have you alive. I mean, you have so much to live for!"
"Like what?"
"Well, look at me for example," I said. "One day you can be as successful and cool as me."
He cracked up, quickly transforming back to his jolly self.
"Damn you! You got me," he said as he continued to laugh. "Successful. You!"
Welcome to Obama country ... I mean, Hillary's home state
Yes, Chicago is the home of the front runner. Whoever the front runner is. Either way, I'd like to say hello to all the Daily Kos readers coming over. (You regular Teacher Man readers should check out Kos to see what I'm talking about.)
So, yeah, a quick post about teaching: Today, for the first time this election cycle, a student asked who I'm going to vote for. Always quick on my feet, I asked, "Who do you think I should vote for?" And always a Chicago guy, I added, "And how much are willing to pay me for that vote?"
Dealing with mostly African-American and Latino students, I always wonder if I should let my bleeding heart flow. It's a debate I've had with other teachers, especially the ones in the social studies department. They don't like revealing to students how they vote. So the kids assume that all of their white, tie-wearing teachers vote Republican. I, on the other hand, don't mind going off on an anti-Republican rant from time to time.
Any thoughts out there? Should a teacher show his true political colors? Or should the teacher teach critical thinking skills and let the kids make up their own minds?
So, yeah, a quick post about teaching: Today, for the first time this election cycle, a student asked who I'm going to vote for. Always quick on my feet, I asked, "Who do you think I should vote for?" And always a Chicago guy, I added, "And how much are willing to pay me for that vote?"
Dealing with mostly African-American and Latino students, I always wonder if I should let my bleeding heart flow. It's a debate I've had with other teachers, especially the ones in the social studies department. They don't like revealing to students how they vote. So the kids assume that all of their white, tie-wearing teachers vote Republican. I, on the other hand, don't mind going off on an anti-Republican rant from time to time.
Any thoughts out there? Should a teacher show his true political colors? Or should the teacher teach critical thinking skills and let the kids make up their own minds?
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